


so i'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out / how i’m imaginin' you.

by kr7ken



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bottom Cobb Vanth, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Horny Din Djarin, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Public teasing, Semi-Public Sex, So many commas, Soft Din Djarin, Talk to be exact, Tenderness, This fic is all over the place so i apologize, Top Din Djarin, Yearning with a capital Y, abuse of commas, confident din djarin :), horribly. horribly paced i’m so sorry, light but there, so so so horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kr7ken/pseuds/kr7ken
Summary: It’s a little too much, but Din can’t help but ache for more, for all of it, all of Cobb, all of what he has to give and more.Din is not a selfish man - but he’ll take and take, and take if Cobb will let him.or; handjob with Yearning.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 24
Kudos: 114





	so i'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out / how i’m imaginin' you.

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes are my own and if you spot any, let me know and i’ll get to fixin’ it! (´꒳`)♡
> 
> the start of this fic is the absolute worse but i didn’t know how else to start it. also, like it says in tags: this is set somewhere after chp16 so it’s vaguely referenced that din is just alone in mos pelgo *thumbs up emoji*  
> bit angsty at the start and maybe a little mixed in but not *too* angsty =) 
> 
> tw for alcohol; thats it really. oh! and i sometimes switched pov’s for like two seconds to describe what cobb was feeling but it’s hardly noticeable really, sorry for that if it’s disorienting. 
> 
> and for context; din is wearing casual wear with the helmet on because it’s absolutely my most favorite thing in the world when people draw him like, that so please bare with me y’all - i’m just a simp.

Sitting comfortably in a booth, Din feels a warmth in him at the sight of the townsfolk around him celebrating something Din _cannot_ remember. 

A birthday? No, wedding. Wait, no.

Why the _hell_ did Cobb drag him here? 

The air is filled with the sweat-slick scent of a hard days work, bodies covered in muck as they down shots of many different alcohols, leaving the headaches and hangovers to haunt them for tomorrow as they enjoy the comfort of liquor in their bellies and the music playing throughout the room. 

_Not a wedding. Too many people covered in filth._ _Maybe a birthday. Everyone is getting drunk and one particular person seems to be the center of attention._

Whatever the case, Din can’t ignore the feeling of contentment springing in his bones. It feels as if he were meant to be here, meant to be witnessing this celebration with his eyes, his ears - as if the universe patted him on the shoulder and gave him a pass, ' _a_ _llow yourself this just once,'_ it says, whisper-soft and pushing at him. 

Sighing heavily, Din realizes this feels terrifyingly like a _home,_ as if Din has lived here his entire upbringing, like he knows each person's name, knows their families and their friends like they're his own. Feels like he could walk down the sandy streets of Mos Pelgo and be offered waves instead of stares, warm welcomes instead of hard-hearted shut outs. 

Something in his body hums at the thought, and his brain is met with the sensation of wanting to relive faux memories - one's he knows do not exist, ones that will never exist even if he were to try and pry them out. And something in him longs for that feeling of having a home, a place to always come back to, a place to have fond memories of. Perhaps instead of tear-stained cheeks, he'd remember hugs as tight as a clenched fist, or genuine smiles and belly-laughs. 

He smiles underneath his helmet at the thought of living here, settling down. Considers owning a home, decorating it how he pleased, having neighbors who know his name and welcome him with a warm embrace and a genuine chuckle each morning. 

Din allows himself this one moment of comfortable thought, this second of _want_. 

He wants and he _wants_ , lets it bubble beneath the surface of himself, burn him until the fire sizzles out like embers of a fire, promptly forcing it to leave like an eviction. He longs for far too many things, ever-present and heavy at the forefront of his skull, pushing against it as if begging to he released - to be free in the world, to be acted upon. 

And, speaking of _want -_ Cobb strides towards the booth that Din is occupying, plants himself down right next to Din, giving a raise of his glass as a sort of introduction, then he speaks, “Enjoying yourself?” He asks, giving a crooked smile. 

Din tries to ignore the not-so familiar sensation of something golden blooming between his ribs when he sees the pointy ends of Cobb’s canines in the smile. 

Taking in the sight of the man before, Din swallows hard, throat dry. Cobb’s got on a loose-fitting top, a deep maroon that makes his pale skin glow bright, the same color scarf tied messily around his neck, revealing small slivers of skin that has Din’s brain toeing the line between wanting to sink his canines into the flesh there; leave marks that he knows _everyone_ will see, but also wanting to place feather-light kisses there - feel Cobb’s rapid pulse against his lips.

Or maybe he could pin him down, bind his wrists together by that moon-red scarf and shove his face into the bed, let Cobb moan as loud as he pleased. Din wants to let the other scream his name if it meant seeing, _feeling_ , the marshal crumble beneath his very hand.

Maybe he’d blindfold him with that _god-dammed scarf_ , have him guessing with every touch of Din’s bared hand, have Cobb writhing with every press of lips, every flare of pain that comes with Din’s teeth pinching flesh. Din could let Cobb rake his nails through his hair, tug whenever he pleased as Din gave him his best. Ruined Cobb until he was nothing more than a sweating, whining, _pathetic_ mess in his bed. 

He’s not sure which he wants more. 

Din tries to ignore the want that tugs at his gut, fire-burning and building up inside him. 

Keyword? _Tries._

“Yes,” Din answers after a beat of silence, when he remembers where he is, “It’s.. nice.” 

The marshal gives a huff, a breath of a chuckle, “Usually I’d be out dancin’ with someone right now,” He says, moving himself closer to Din, their thighs shy of touching, “But nobodies interested tonight, I suppose.” 

It makes Din’s skin crawl, the thought of someone else touching Cobb so intimately. Their arms wrapped around his neck as their bodies sway to the song, so close their breath must collide, and Cobb’s hands resting on a strangers hips; it borderline disgusts him. 

Din wants that to be him, he wants to hold Cobb close in a slow sway, have their bodies be pressed so close it’d be their own world.

Their frames would fit just right together without the block of armor, and thanks to Cobb, he’s taken a liking to wearing casual clothing when he’s off duty. Tonight he’s wearing a dark, flowy shirt that’s collared, featured with dark colored pants that are just on the right side of tight. 

It takes a second for Din to realize that, there it is again; that _want._ The same one that seems to slither itself into Din’s bloodline whenever Cobb shows that face of his - chiseled jaw and stubbled cheeks, gaze burning Din alive. 

Since Grogu’s been in training, Din has been here, in Mos Pelgo. He’s been working small jobs, ones less grueling as bounty hunting, giving himself a rest. 

He’s been helping Cobb, things like marking each down newcomer, checking their belongings and making sure they weren’t a threat to the growing town.

Deputy business, Cobb had called it. It was a temporary title, Din was sure; but he cherished it no less. 

With that, over a short period of a few months, Din had grown uncharacteristically close to Cobb. He’d listened to his countless stories for hours on hours, shared glances that he isn’t sure Cobb was aware of, spent an unhealthy amount of time daydreaming about the marshal. 

Din has learned the curve of his figure, knows it even as a silhouette, could identify him in a matter of seconds if you put him to the test. He’s come to love the sound of Cobb’s voice, rough but on the softer side, could scare you if you didn’t know him, but could also put you to sleep if you listened with your eyes closed.

And Din’s learned the way Cobb works, how his cogs turn in that brain of his. Knows Cobb likes pistols and repeaters more than anything else, knows that he can throw a mean punch, but doesn’t like getting his hands too dirty. Din’s seen the way he eyes people, knows how he scans the lands with his eyes squinted at the end of the day just as a final evaluation, a final _just in case_ , before heading into his - ~~_their_?~~ \- home.

Din knows Cobb values trust and security more than anything else, and Din knew Cobb trusted him the minute he walked back into that cantina, could see it in the way his eyes lit up the slightest and that toothy grin spread across his face.

It’s a trust he isn’t sure he could break.

Din knows the way Cobb’s hands are rough from years of handling a blaster. Knows the feeling of Cobb’s fingers, knows the callouses that’ve built there over the years, has become awful soft for them, as well. 

And Din thinks Cobb might like him too, he must, right? There’s no logical reason for Cobb, a man who could’ve shut Din out the minute he asked for hospitality because he _hardly knew him_ , to take him in without a split second of hesitation or question. 

Needless to say, Din might’ve taken a liking to Cobb Vanth over time.

“That’d be a show.” Din jokes, tilting his glass. Cobb laughs, sweet-sounding and making Din’s heart clench with something dangerous, something he’s a little afraid to give a name. 

There’s music playing softly throughout the cantina, Din doesn’t know the song, but it’s definitely slow. 

Cobb looks down for a moment, then stands, outstretching his hand to Din. 

“Dance with me?” Cobb asks like it’s no big deal, that lopsided grin spread across his face.

It’s silent for a moment, and it feels as if it drags itself out, every second making this a bit more awkward, it makes his insides feel like spiders crawl throughout him. 

“...Are you serious?” Din asks, but it comes out flatter than he had meant. 

Cobb’s face falters, and Din feels his heart pang. 

“I mean’t,” He fixes fast, “Are you - are you sure?” 

Cobb’s expression slowly comes back, he chuckles like he’s relieved, “I asked didn’t I?” 

Din looks at Cobb’s hand, “I don’t dance.” 

The other man rolls his eyes, “Neither do I, partner. It’s just for fun, c’mon.” 

Din hesitates for a moment, then remembers the image of himself and Cobb pressed close together, hands on one another and moving slow to the song. 

Lifting his helmet slightly and turning his head to the side, Din downs the rest of his drink, then takes Cobb’s hand and lets himself be pulled into the open space of the cantina.

Cobb situates them in a less crowded space, leads Din with a never-dropping smile. 

“Right, you ain’t ever danced, so this might be a tad difficult,” Cobb humors, giving Din a soft look, “But I ain’t ever been a quitter.” 

Din rolls his eyes behind his visor, “I didn’t say I’ve never danced. And you talk too much.” 

It’s too affectionate to sound annoyed, Cobb laughs at that, “Yeah, but, you love it.” 

He's right. Din _does_ love it.

Cobb wastes no time to situate himself, wraps his arms around Din’s neck the best he can, then gives the other a look that indicates he wants Din to finish the steps. Hesitatingly, Din plants his hands on Cobb’s waist, and the moment he completes the motion, Cobb starts to slowly move them. 

Din doesn’t dance. He’s never been a dancer, but something about this feels right, something about _Cobb_ feels right. And as they slowly move together, quietly drowning in one another’s existence, Din realizes he might be in deep.

Cobb pulls Din closer, their middles almost meet, a breath away of contact. It makes Din’s hands throb, and he becomes acutely aware of how close Cobb’s body is to his own, feels the heat radiating off it. He’s always been warm, Din recalls, thinks the two suns of Tatooine have sunk below his skin to make him a personal heater. 

Then it’s an urge, an impulse, to move his hand lower, wrap his fingers along the inside of Cobb’s thigh, tease the other until he’s begging for it, make his intentions, no, his _wants_ , apparent - give him even the slightest indication that Din can feel the tension between them. 

He wonders if Cobb notices it too. 

Would that be too much? Too fast? He’s never been good at cues like this, never been in the know of how to approach something like this; but with Cobb it feels almost natural, like they’d been toeing around each other long enough, like Cobb knows just as well as Din how this night will end. 

Cobb _must_ notice the tension that hangs low in the air between them, thick and unable to be ignored. It's like a weight on their shoulders, weighing them down further with each lingering touch and too-fond word spoken about, or to, one another. It's unavoidable, the fact that Din will have to face the feelings churning inside him each moment he's alive with Cobb. He wonders if Cobb is faced with the same turmoil. 

Din decides to give in to the impulse that’s eating away at him, slides his hand from Cobb’s hip to his thigh, fingers spreading to dig his fingertips into the meat there - he can feel Cobb flinch momentarily, and when Din’s hand slips more in, rubs near his cock, Din hears him gasp.

It’s low in his throat and hardly audible to anyone but the two, and Din can feel Cobb’s cock twitch with interest at the attention of Din’s pressing thumb-pad. 

There’s no words that can completely translate to the feeling going through Din at this moment, but something like satisfaction fills him when he sees that Cobb is attempting to keep a straight face as Din’s thumb rubs hard circles near his cock. 

“Is this okay?” Din asks, voice hardly anything more than a breathy whisper, and when Cobb makes a sound behind the teeth that are biting down into his bottom lip like he’s about to chew it off, Din shifts his hand to instead palm at the growing tent in Cobb’s pants. 

It makes Din’s own cock throb with interest, he ignores it. He’s too busy focusing on the way Cobb’s eyes keep fluttering closed then quickly opening again each time Din presses his palm down harder against his cock. 

Cobb glares at Din past his visor, “You tryna get me worked up?” He asks, voice raspy, teasing at a whine. 

“That depends,” Din answers, then pushes down harder, making Cobb let out a punched groan as Din pulls closer to Cobb’s frame, giving him the chance to lean in close to Cobb’s ear and whisper, “Is it working?”

Cobb growls, almost animalized, and nods jerkily, eyes slipping closed when Din rubs his palm down rather hard. 

Din hums, stops moving his hand and relishes in the way Cobb’s hips buck up to make his own friction, desperate.

It's the slightest bit amusing to Din.

He can feel the warmth of Cobb’s cock beneath his palm, can feel the way it’s hardening with each passing second, becoming more and more interested. Din wonders just how much of an effect he has on Cobb, if he can abuse that power to Cobb’s liking. 

Cobb whines, it’s quiet, but Din drinks it’s up as his hips move slow, eyes still closed like he’s drunk on the sensations going through him. Drunk on the lingering threat of being caught like this in his own towns pub, a Mandalorian’s hand on his dick as he shamefully, but not _too_ shamefully, grinds against it. 

There's a million different things going through Din's brain, yet each one ends with Cobb's body against his, sweat rolling off skin, breathing heavy as their lips clash. 

“I’ll give you what you want,” Din says, low and deep, “maybe more, if you’re good.”

Cobb’s eyes open fast, lips forming a smile as he breathes hard. There’s a look in his eyes that Din can’t describe, it sets him on fire from within, and in that moment, Din is completely _his_ , as much as Cobb is his as well. 

Brown eyes with pupils blown black, lids half shut and drooping with arousal, Din can almost smell it on him, potent and honey-sweet, making him crave Cobb like he’s been starved. 

With all of Din’s being, it’s taking an _ungodly_ amount of self-control not to devour Cobb right where he stands, takes every fiber in Din’s body to stop himself from pulling Cobb impossibly closer, grind his hips with him, make the other spill in his pants in front of half the town.

But Din is a patient man, to an extent. 

“Yep, okay. We’re leaving.” Cobb says a little too quick, and grabs Din’s arm to tug him out the door, walking fast on shaky legs. 

Din follows Cobb out with a hand placed at the small of his back, fingers pressing in and out of the muscle there, occasionally gliding his fingers along the bumpy road of Cobb’s spine, feeling the way the other shivers at the contact.

The walk is short, thankfully, and Din can’t help but chuckle at the sight of Cobb unlocking the door with nervous fingers. 

“You’re a tease, ya’know that?” Cobb grits, pushing his house door open with a shoulder, flicking on the lights, Din watches as they stutter for a moment, then light fills the dark corners of the home. 

He doesn’t have time to answer, no time to jeer at Cobb even further, because Cobb is grabbing his wrist, the bones tensing at the pressure, and pulls him towards the hallway, leading him down the corridor with haste - _impatience._

Din’s dragged into the bedroom. It’s a good size considering Cobb lives alone, or, _lived_ alone. It’s spacey and enough room for the two of them to shuffle around as Cobb takes off his belt, then slips off his boots, and his shirt is the last to go.

Theres miles of free skin on display just for Din. A trail of hair leads from Cobb’s belly button to below his pants waistband, and Din cannot help but be curious what lays beneath the garment. 

Din sits on the bed, spreads his legs. 

He pats his lap, offering a seat, and Cobb moves like lightening, climbing onto Din’s lap, his knees pressing comfortably into Din’s sides, slotting them together nicely.

He slides one gloved hand up Cobb’s clothed thigh, gliding it up and down continuously, digging his fingers into the meat at the inner part occasionally. 

He raises his other gloved hand, nods in the direction of it, “Take it off.”

Its an order, not a question, Cobb realizes, staring blankly at Din for a second too long before he pieces together that Din is speaking to _him_. 

Cobb reaches for Din’s hand, long fingers wrapping around his wrist. There’s a beat of quiet between them, and Din gives a simple nod of permission before Cobb gets to working the glove off his hand, pulling at the tips of each individual finger slowly, dragging it out as long as he can. Slowly, Cobb makes his way to Din’s final finger, then slides the glove up and off, revealing tan skin for a short distance, down to his wrist where Cobb’s own pale fingers are wrapped. 

Another second of quiet, and Din moves his hand to cup Cobb’s cheek, thumb rubbing through the hair there, watching as Cobb leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut for a moment before hazily opening again, giving Din a look of such vulnerability it makes him almost sick. 

Then it hits him like a punch to the gut; the realization that Cobb is at his mercy, _completely._ Din has power over him like no other in this moment, with Cobb in his lap practically drooling at the skin to skin contact of Dins hand sweetly cupping his face. He could do whatever he pleased to him in this very moment, and Cobb would just _take it_ , blinded by this overwhelming amount of pleasure buzzing between them. 

And Din? He’d give Cobb all of it, every ounce of his existence in this very moment if it meant having Cobb to himself. 

Din’s thumb trails down, fingertip finding Cobb’s lips, dragging across them with curiosity, tracing the shape of them, feeling the texture of chapped skin. Cobb spreads his lips the smallest amount, and Din takes the offer without hesitation, pulling his mouth open farther to slot his index and middle finger inside Cobb’s mouth, placing them flat on top his tongue. 

Cobb makes a choked noise, lips closing around the digits, cherishing the taste of leather that’s leftover on Din’s fingers, licking over the calloused tips. 

“Krif..” Din breathes, voice hoarse and quiet between the two, like a secret for only them to hear, for only _them_ to know. It’s almost numbing, the feeling of Din’s voice rolling over Cobb’s skin, shock waves of vibrations that go straight to his cock. He hums weakly, and if there weren’t intrusions in his mouth, he’d be begging right now, begging to be touched, to have Din’s hands and mouth leave their mark. 

Din pulls his fingers out slowly, watching the trail of spit that follows with interest as he spreads it over Cobb’s parted lips, wetting them with his own spit. The feeling Cobb’s breath ghosting over his fingertips, the temperature change, makes his own cock pulse, jump to attention. 

Cobb lets out a deep breath, hands finding Din’s shoulders, fingers drumming the Beskar pads there, the tapping jittery, like he’s waiting for _something_ , anything. 

Trailing his hand slowly, Din makes his way from Cobb’s lips and back to his cheek, thumb rubbing gently one more time before traveling to the back of the marshals neck, toying with the neckerchiefs knot, loosening it lazily. There’s an urge to move his fingers down just a centimetre, grip the hairs that spread over the nape of Cobb’s neck, give them a tug and crane his head back, expose his throat to Din like it’s just his to devour. 

He resists it. Barley. 

“Can I put this over your eyes?” Din asks instead, ignores the voice in his head that lacks the self control he currently possesses. 

Cobb chuckles dryly, “Go ‘head.” 

A spark of fire sprouts in Din, twists with the already burning want that’s clouding his every judgement.

“Good.” Din replies, stilted, as if he’s uneasy about something. He undoes the knot that ties it around Cobb’s neck, pinching the fabric between his fingers, feeling the material. It’s soft to the touch, fabric thicker than he expected, he finds himself rubbing his bare thumb over it a couple times, enjoying the way it feels - he only stops when Cobb shifts anxiously in his lap. 

_Get on with it,_ a small voice yells in his head, reminding him of where he is, _who_ he’s with.

Din tugs it off from around Cobb’s neck, exposing the skin there furthermore. His mouth waters a little, teeth ache, urges flood back, the same from earlier; sink his teeth there, leave bruises that’ll last for days, make everyone know Cobb is _his_. He can see Cobb’s heartbeat in the pulse point of his throat, pounding faster at the second, and Din wants to press his lips there, kiss it into a calm rhythm. 

Removing his other hand from Cobb’s thigh, he folds the fabric over itself a few times, shaping it into a solid blindfold, it’s the best he has right now, maybe next time they’ll have something better. 

_Next time?_

Maybe next time they won’t need a blindfold, maybe Din will slip his helmet off with confidence, let Cobb examine his face with scrutiny, drag his fingers over Din’s eyebrows and underneath his eyes. Maybe Cobb will note the dark circles there, say something cheesy along the lines of Din needing to be taken care of, and Din would nod slow, lean into the touch of Cobb’s warm hand, let himself be coddled. 

Next time, Din will let Cobb have his way with him, be a servant of his desires, take orders like he’s done his entire life, listen with intent of satisfying. Be on his knees, stare up at Cobb like one would look to a god when praying, be subject to whatever Cobb pleased. 

Din _aches_ for a next time. 

He raises the blindfold up and over Cobb’s eyes, tying the ends into a knot at the back of his head, not too tight, but enough that Din is sure it wont slip down on accident. He knows Cobb has his eyes shut, but there's still an apprehensiveness that churns in his stomach that it’ll fail, or that Cobb will suddenly take it off when he’s at his most weak, and sneak a look when Din’s not paying attention. 

But the doubts die down as quick as they surfaced, cause Din trusts Cobb more than he ever thought he would. There’s an undeniable force between the two, something unspoken, but loud in ways that cannot be explained. It twirls in the air between them, glows in the stars above them, surrounds them unending - like the universe brought them together for a reason.

Din doesn't quite believe in fate, but he’ll give it props, just this once. 

“No peeking.” Din says, it’s a demand. Cobb nods, firm. 

Din’s hands raise shakily to his helmet, thumbs pressing the two release buttons that allow him to slide it off his head. He hears the hiss of air being released, then lifts the Beskar up, feeling the unfamiliar drag of the helmets internal padding sliding off his head. 

The rooms darker than he thought, and there’s a scent in the air he’s grown to love, like a home that’s been properly lived in, and the smell of sheets that have been slept in for years, holding smell of Cobb’s skin in the fibers. He can feel the air around them sticking to his skin, and he can smell just how close Cobb is to him, like speeder oil and an echo of soap, not fresh, but not dirty, somewhere in between.

It’s a little too much, but Din can’t help but ache for more, for all of it - all of Cobb, all of what he has to give and more. 

Din is not a selfish man - but he’ll take and take, and _take_ if Cobb will let him. 

“You alright, Din?” 

Cobb’s voice punches him back into reality, reminds him of the situation going on, of the lithe man sitting in his lap, squirming with suspense, eager for _his_ touch.

He pats his helmet, then stretches out his arm to drop it to the floor beside them, careful, as if he were trying to respect it despite the fact that he is bending the same very Creed that gave him that helmet.

He’s already broken his Creed, he knows this, and is disrespecting it even further - but if bending some already broken rules meant he got to have Cobb all to himself; Din would mold the rules like putty to satisfy this one spoil. 

He _wants_ and _wants_ with every inch of his body. 

Sliding his other glove off, Din tosses it over to the small table at the other end of the room, then places both his hands back atop Cobb's thighs, though his left travels farther up, moves slowly towards the heat of Cobb's groin. His index finger finds the button of Cobb's pants, toys with it for a second, watching the way Cobb's breath hitches for a moment, then undoes it slowly, opening the front of the marshals pants. 

He can see Cobb’s bulge straining through his boxers, sees the hard silhouette pushing itself against the fabric. Din drags his fingers slow, tortuously, ghosts them right above Cobb’s cock, sees the way it pulses at the indication of friction, he chuckles. 

“You’re doing good, _sarad_..” Din praises, and his own voice sounds like a stranger to him, too affectionate, soft around the edges instead of rough. Cobb nods, tongue darting out to wet his already slick lips, parting his mouth the slightest to let out a deep breath that Din can feel blow against his hair - watches the way his shoulders deflate, but still hold tension. 

He offers a bit of mercy, slides his thumb over the tip of Vanth’s cock, feels the stickiness that hides beneath the fabric of his underwear, runs his finger down the shaft, then back up, notes the thickness - he’s impressed, if he were to be honest.

Wonders what it would feel like in his mouth.

Cobb’s hands hadn’t moved from his shoulders since they got there, but then Din feels a fingertip graze the side of his neck, curious, cautious, like he didn’t know whether it was allowed or not. Din lets it happen, lets Cobb’s fingers glide along the side of his throat, up to his jaw - lets the other examine him without actually seeing, lets his imagination run wild. 

But then Vanth’s hand finds his hair, offering a few seconds of innocence, playing with the strands before he takes a fistful, tugs like he’s testing the waters, seeing if Din will let him have his way.

There’s a playfulness behind it, Din likes it. 

So he plays back, lets his thumb pause back at the tip of Cobb's cock, rubs a circle or two there, and Cobb whines high in his throat, it’s a sound Din wants to wring out of him until he’s dry of it. Spry fingers pull at the hem of Cobb’s boxers and tow them down just enough to free the other mans cock of its confinements. He watches with interest as the reddened flesh comes into the light, shiny at the tip and flushed, painfully neglected at this point.

Din almost feels bad knowing how long he's dragged this scene out, how long Cobb has been waiting just to be touched properly, yet at the same time, he finds some sort of sadistic enjoyment in watching the way the marshal writhes in his lap, the way his body arches ever so slightly into the whisper-light pressure of Din teasing his cock behind his briefs. 

“I’m dyin’ here, Din..” Cobb huffs, words sounding airy, breathy, like he’s been holding his breath for too long. Din makes a face, and some part of him wishes Cobb could see it, could take note of his expression and maybe emote back, give Din a funny look that’d make him smile.

“Try again.” 

“What?” 

Din chuckles, though it’s more a puff of air more than anything else, “Ask nicely.”

His tone is far raspier than he intended, and he can see the way it affects Cobb; spine straightening the slightest, teeth peaking out to nibble on his bottom lip momentarily. 

Cobb makes a irritated noise though, "You serious?" 

His tone isn't irritated, far from it, actually - it's heavy with interest, it's got that playful tune that wraps so devilishly around Cobb's tongue, makes every question sound like challenge, like he's trying to one up Din's every move. Prove himself the one in control of the situation, as if he's not drooling in Din's lap with every nerve in his body on edge with a need that runs so deep it feels like it might start to physically _hurt_. 

Din takes the bait, takes one finger and traces a line up from root to tip, drags it along a vein that'd caught his eye. Cobb sucks in a breath, his head falling backwards as his adam's apple bobs when he swallows roughly. It's a single finger, it's hardly anything in terms of offering pleasure - but Din knows how taut Cobb is, how his body is itching for some relief, some form of touch that isn't borderline tormenting. Din then pauses the finger at his tip, allowing a second to join it and gather a bit of pre-cum that's formed there to slick his next downward stroke, fist now engulfed around Cobb's cock. 

Then it's yelp-like, loud and high, it sounds almost alien coming out of Cobb's throat. 

Din's hand continues to jerk, slides up and down Cobb's cock at a slow pace, keeping Cobb at Din's own tempo. He twists his wrist once he reaches the tip, gathers Cobb's own precum around his palm, wets his fingers each time he reaches. There's a disgusting sound in the room, mixed with Cobb's gasps, and Din finds himself rather enjoying it, and Cobb seems to be enjoying himself as well. 

He leans forward to nip at Cobb's slender neck, which earns him a quick jerk from Cobb, who quickly leans into the feeling of Din's lips. Din sucks gently, sweetens him up a bit, let's Cobb get lost in the feeling of Din fisting his cock as he leaves love-marks wherever he chooses. Din know's he's letting him have his cake and eat it too, but he couldn't really care less when Cobb is making the filthiest of noises all because of _him._

“You want to cum, don’t you?” 

Din doesn’t know where it comes from, the sudden confidence, the dominant tones and moves, but he can’t help how he runs his mouth with Cobb at his mercy like this. Especially when Cobb nods frantically, his hips trying to buck, fuck himself into Din’s tight fist. 

He pauses, squeezes the base of Cobb’s cock almost painfully, and squeezes Cobb’s hips with a hard grip to keep him pinned, “Ask nicely, _mesh’la_.

Cobb makes a noise that’s then ripped out of him when Din strokes up, once, then twice, and then pauses again, squeezes. It cracks him, that final thread of any sort of stubbornness is snipped away, and his words come out a jumbled mess of ‘ _please’s_ and Din’s name slurred.

Another stroke, then two, and a few noncommittal pity-strokes that last mere seconds of motion, “That’s it, c’mon..” 

Cobb can’t speak anymore, he can only make these pathetic noises that seem to drain out of him. They echo off the walls of the small room, and Cobb swears there must be a sly sort of smile plastered on Din’s face seeing him like this, having this power. 

He’d be right.

Din strokes faster, watches the way Cobb’s mouth starts to hang open as airy, frantic pants fall from it. On an upstroke, he flicks his thumb over the slit of Cobb’s cock, then watches with satisfaction as Cobb’s entire body tenses, stifled gasps quiet behind clenched teeth, then loosens as he comes, white and stringy all over his own belly and Din’s knuckles. 

“Good.. that’s good,” Din praises in a gentle tone as he strokes him through the high, collecting some of Cobb’s own finish and gliding it down his spent cock. Only when Cobb flinches with over-stimulation and tries to wiggle away does he release his grip to wipe his hand on his pants without care. 

Cobb sags over, forehead bumping the top of Din’s head, he rests it there as he breathes shakily, collecting himself. Din can feel himself smiling, something like unadulterated contentedness goes through him as he listens to Cobb take deep breaths. There's a sense of pride there, like he's impressed he could unravel a man like Cobb into such a mess like this - but there's also pride in himself. Pride for taking a step this large, for pushing himself past his self-built walls, allow himself to get _close_. 

Din sits and listens to Cobb’s breath even out, content with just this moment, the moment of quiet that comes after the ear-ringing pleasure and desperation. There’s something about having Cobb this close, Din can feel his breaths on the bridge of his nose, can hear the thudding of his heart, it makes Din’s own heart pound a little harder.

He wonders what Cobb’s eyes would look like right now, wonders if they’d be watery with a threat of tears, or maybe they’d be tired and droopy, maybe wide and lust-bloomed - Din wants to know. He wants to see Cobb eye to eye, bare of any barriers, completely unguarded in a way he’d never been before.

Maybe it was time. They’d broken this unspoken tension that’s been there since day one, smashed it to bits, and Din knows there’s feelings inside he cannot let out without having had Cobb see him eye to eye. 

He knows Cobb’s face like the rig of a blaster, knows every wrinkle and freckle, knows the way his cheeks flush at certain jokes and things Din says, but Cobb doesn’t know _his_ affect on Din. 

It’s unfair, Din realizes. He wants Cobb to know him, wants him to memorize each feature and perfect imperfection like Din has to him. He wants Cobb’s hand on his cheek, thumb rubbing the cheekbone, and he wants kisses on lips and loved glances from across the cantina - he wants Cobb to see him for him. 

There’s no second thought as Din reaches up with his clean hand to pull at the knot of Cobb’s blindfold, tug it loose and free. Cobb’s hands immediately go to catch it as his body jolts to accommodate his racing hands.

“Did ya’ mean to do that?” Cobb asks, a nervous laugh joining his words. Din doesn’t reply, only pulls Cobb’s hands and cloth away from his face and makes a noise of conformation, letting Cobb know it’s okay. 

Cobb’s eyebrows are furrowed with confusion, a bit of uncertainty, but he opens his eyes nonetheless. Slowly, Cobb’s eyes meet Din’s, and Din feels like he’s a deer in the headlights, completely frozen in this moment. Cobb’s face changes fast, going from uncertain to pleased, the toothy, lopsided smile Din’s come to love spreads across his face. 

“Well would ya’ look at that,” Cobb says, his voice raspy and blown. A hand comes up to cup Din’s cheek, warm, rough and familiar. He leans his head into the touch, turns it slightly to kiss at Cobb’s wrist, “You’re a handsome devil.” 

Din laughs, then pushes himself forward to press his lips against Cobb’s, soft. Cobb kisses right back, moves his hand from Din’s cheek to the back of his head, pressing him closer. 

The kiss is nothing more than lips brushing, learning the shape one another's mouth in an attempt to say something Din isn’t sure he has the courage to mumble. It’s sweet, sugar on his tongue and sinking into his teeth, and it’s gentle, making goosebumps rise on his skin. 

There’s a million words piling up in the back of his throat when Cobb pulls back for a breath, but they stay out when he sees Cobb’s eyes trail around his face, map out his features. Din smiles, watches Cobb’s eyes track his lips, then meet his again.

It’s slow and careful, treading around what’s too much and too little, and in the hands of Cobb, Din feels like something precious, something worth protecting. 

”This is a sweet my moment and all, but my stomach is covered in a whole mess that I’d like to take care of ‘fore it dries.” Cobb speaks, a little breathless after pulling away, his tone is a tad awkward, but there’s a smile accompanying it that makes Din’s wider. 

He just nods, helps Cobb off his lap and leans back on his elbows and watches Cobb make himself decent. He grabs a hand towel to clean his stomach, and it’s a bit odd, sure, but Din finds himself staring, watching with a burning feeling in his heart. 

Din takes this time to learn the map of Cobb’s lithe frame, strong shoulders and biceps that aren’t too big, but still hold the strength of a fighter. His hips are slender, and there’s a good layer of fat over his stomach that reminds Din his cooking has payed off after all. There’s scars littered about, a few small, probably accidental ones, but a particular one that stretches from his shoulder to the middle of his back strikes Din’s curiosity. 

It makes him want to drag his finger along it, feel the potential bumpiness of it, feel the way it healed. He wants to know the story behind it, how it carved itself into Cobb’s skin, how deep it must’ve been to leave a scar that prominent. 

Yep. Cobb’s _definitely_ got Din wrapped around his finger. 

He watches as Cobb cleans himself off, then stretches and turns to face Din again, smiling sweetly when their eyes meet. 

“Gonna take a minute to get used to seeing your face,” Cobb jokes, walking forward to join Din on the bed again. He crawls and lays next to Din on his stomach, tentatively putting his head on Din’s chest, listens to his heartbeat. 

Din chuckles breathily, moves his arm to rest it atop the curve of Cobb’s back, running his fingers along the bumps of that curious scar. 

It’s silent again, and Din closes his eyes listening to the sound of Cobb’s breathing. He wants to wonder what this means for them, how this’ll change their relationship, but he can’t focus on that, his brain running circles around the way Cobb’s eyes felt safe on him. 

Safety, that’s what Cobb is. Cobb is safety in a slim frame, he is love in the feeling of caressing hands, he is comfort in the way he speaks. He is all Din could need, and in the quiet he realizes, this is love. 

**Author's Note:**

> real quick translations:  
> sarad - flower  
> mesh’la - beautiful/handsome 
> 
> anyhoot, if you made it this far thank you so so much! ..how the hell did you read this mess? how was the ending? should i write another piece to this that’s a confession or some shit? pls lmk 
> 
> kudos and comments are deeply appreciated, thank you if you decide to leave either i owe you my life *hug*
> 
> dincobb brainrot is strong, so i’ll write more of them i’m sure =p


End file.
